


Gotten

by AldreaAlien



Series: Maxwell Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AldreaAlien/pseuds/AldreaAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having buried himself in the role of the perfect young Chantry cleric for six years prior to the Inquisition, Maxwell Trevelyan finds himself a little out of practice when it comes to the carnal arts. Fortunately for him, a certain mage can help him in remembering the steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotten

_There's… something there that might interest you_ . Maxwell huffed as he surveyed his quarters, Dorian's words echoing through his mind. Nothing looked out of place, nothing extra added. Maybe he'd heard the mage wrong. It was entirely possible. They'd spoken of a lot of things that time. But he could've sworn…

His gaze fell upon the desk. Or maybe he was meant to search for whatever this thing was. He glanced over the surface, rummaged through the drawers and—

 _Nothing_. The mage was toying with him. Again. _And I thought Sera's pranks were bad enough_. But then, he didn't have the same feelings for the elf as he did for the mage.

The tread of another's footstep coming up the stairs caught Maxwell's attention. The click of metal, the subtle pause and swagger in the beat, told him who. _Dorian_? Did he come to gloat? Maxwell was turning before his intruder could speak, a question on his lips.

"So!" Dorian said, giving him one of those delightful smirks Maxwell so enjoyed. "It's all very nice, this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man."

 _I see_. Suddenly the man's words all made sense. Trying his best to conceal a smile, he stood there with his hands on his hips, letting the mage play out his little game. Dorian did, after all, have a rather pleasant voice. The type Maxwell could listen to all day.

"So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chitchat and move on to something more…" His smirk took on a hungry twist. "…primal."

Maxwell swallowed. The way Dorian stalked across the room, stroking that little tuft of hair on his chin, the soft growl as he spoke… _Maker preserve me_.

"It'll set tongues wagging, of course," Dorian continued, circling Maxwell until the mage stood at his back. "Not that they aren't already wagging."

He folded his arms. Well, he certainly didn't have to be told about _that_. Maxwell had stumbled upon several rumours already. The blighted Orlesians didn't seem to care they were prying into personal matters. It'd almost made him rethink continuing this… thing they had. _Maker knows what they'll make of this if word gets out_.

Dorian leant closer, his breath heating the back of Maxwell's neck. "I suppose it really depends."

Maxwell shivered, every muscle in his body tightening. A small whine crept up his throat, dying as he swallowed in some vain effort to moisten his suddenly dry mouth.

"How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?" the mage whispered.

The question skipped his ears and made straight for other regions. _Oh, he's good_. Max smiled and dared to peek over his shoulder. "I thought you'd never ask."

Dorian smirked. "I like playing hard to get."

"And now?" he asked as he faced the man.

"I'm gotten."

He grasped the mage's arms, placing them firmly on his hips. Their lips met, hot and fast, tongues tangling in an unspoken battle for dominance. Familiar. It set his head spinning, nevertheless.

Dorian's fingers slid up Maxwell's overcoat. A soft grumble passed his lips, more felt than heard, as the mage began the tedious task of unbuttoning. Overcoat undone, Maxwell shrugged the item off and, before Dorian could try, pulled his undershirt over his head. The mage's eyes lit up at that, clearly enjoying what he saw.

Half-dressed, Maxwell tried to make a start on the man's convoluted attire, struggling to find a starting point. A clasp fell to his fumbling, urging him on. "This is ridiculous," he mumbled. How in the world did Dorian manage this every single day? "Why do you need so many belts?" At this rate, it was going to take him some time. There had to be some sort of trick to it.

The mage's smug, throaty laughter heated his neck in response. It was all well and good for him; he'd had the easier task. "If you need help, you have but to ask," he breathed, his lips brushing Maxwell's earlobe.

"No," he mumbled. He could do this. Maxwell tugged at a few more places, distracted from his task by Dorian kissing and nibbling at his neck and shoulders. His earnest search for a way to undress the man slowed as Dorian's hands wandered across Maxwell's bare abdomen and continued down. The mage's palm massaged Maxwell's his length through his trousers. _Maker_ … He groaned, grinding against the touch.

Dorian's head sunk, branding a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses upon down Maxwell's chest, the tickling of his moustache only adding to his excitement. Maxwell tipped his head back, his mouth dropping open. A small whimper left his throat. Such a tame thing should not feel so good.

There was the dull clack of metal on stone as Dorian knelt. The mage plucked at the laces holding Maxwell's trousers fast. The tie loosened quickly and those wicked fingers now curled around the waistband, tugging his trousers and smallclothes down.

Lips brushed his skin, working ever lower as the fabric fell. His breath hitched. Maxwell swallowed, gasping for air, his legs trembling and all but dumping him where he stood. He blindly searched for something to keep him upright, his fingers clutching the edge of his desk.

Maxwell stepped back, fully divesting himself of his boots and clothing. He bumped into the desk, practically sitting on it. Maxwell went to move and was halted by Dorian's hand upon his waist. Another hand wrapped about his length, slowly moving up and down.

He squeezed his eyes shut, slightly terrified that if he opened them now he'd discover this wasn't real. A low moan slid up his throat. It'd been so long since he'd felt the touch of another. His hips rocked to the rhythm the mage set, deepening each movement.

Hands fell on his hips and he cried out in both delight and surprise as Dorian's skilled fingers were replaced by an equally adept mouth. _Shit_ … His grip on the desk tightened. He dared to look. The room blurred, his eyelids fluttering in their effort to keep watching this glorious creature bestowing such pleasure upon him.

Dorian's actions seemed fuelled only by a hungering need, each movement precise as if rehearsed. Rarely did Maxwell meet such fervour. Whether it was a one-night stand or a lingering relationship, he attended to his lover's needs first, in whatever capacity that may be. Usually, it was him on his knees, doing what he enjoyed the most.

This was… To have it done before sex was… new.

His hand slid from the desk edge. His fingertips grazed a shoulder, then the back of Dorian's neck, before gliding into the man's hair. Those pale eyes lifted, holding his gaze. It only served to make the fire in his gut grow hotter that much quicker. _Fuck_ …

Then, just as he felt the trembling coil of bliss starting to unfurl, Dorian pulled away.

"Wh—" He stared at Dorian, dazed by the swift turn of events, as the mage got to his feet. His chest heaved with each shuddering breath. His body hummed, flushed and begging for release. "Bed," he mumbled, his mouth unable to utter much else. He shook his head, struggling to clear it. Maker's breath, he could do better than one syllable. "Bed, now." That was two. _Close enough_.

Dorian chuckled.

He glared at the mage. How dare he be so smug, so utterly… handsome and insufferably desirable! It was against the very fabric of the world for him to be standing there fully dressed, too. Perhaps he ought to try cutting the mage out of his clothes instead of torturing himself trying to undo the clasps.

Maxwell grasped the mage's collar, coaxing him closer. Their mouths met. There was the hint of himself on Dorian's tongue. That only made him want the mage all the more.

It wasn't until he could feel Dorian's breath panting between his lips that Maxwell let him go. "Bed," he repeated, the word rasping through his throat. " _Now_."

Dorian lingered, his lips still parted. His eyes were half lidded, their pale depths hot and dark with lust.

He urged the mage backwards, aiming them for the bed, stopping only once Dorian's back bumped up against the bedpost. Convinced Dorian wouldn't distract him again, he made another bid to free the mage from his convoluted armour before he found himself shoved onto the bed.

Maxwell stretched out on the sheets, trying very hard to rein in his excitement before his chest exploded, as Dorian divested himself of his clothing. In his desperation, he sought for a familiar technique: reciting bits of the Chant.

 _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just_ … In the past, it helped. However, with the removal of each layer, the dull ache of desire grew sharper. _Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow_ … No, definitely not working. He switched Canticles.

 _Magic exists to serve man, and_ … He ran a hand through his hair, racking back the sweaty locks. _Shit_. Now all he could think of was dragging the mage's head back between his legs like some barbarian and demanding Dorian finish the job. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. _All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands_ …

The thud of boots hitting the floor drew his attention back to the mage in time to watch the last of Dorian's clothes slip free.

He sat up, admiring every inch of the man's toned body, the coloured light streaming through the windows giving the view a warm glow. A soft groan tightened his throat. If the Chant was correct, then the Maker had done a fine job on this one.

Maxwell reached out for the amulet dangling around Dorian neck as he drew closer. "I see we're not so eager to be rid of this anymore."

The soft, slightly trembling, chuckle shook the mage's shoulders. "It would be a shame to lose it after the trouble you took."

He slid a trembling hand over the mage's chest as Dorian knelt on the bed, marking how the man reacted to the touch. His hand ran down the mage's abdomen. At last, he wrapped his fingers around the mage's length. Maxwell reflexively moistened his lips.

Dorian's eyes fluttered closed. The mage licked and sucked at his bottom lip, softly rocking into Maxwell's hand. Maxwell kept up the slow rhythm, delighting in the sounds escaping Dorian's mouth.

They fumbled their way across the bed, a tangle of limbs and open kisses. He found himself beneath the mage, their bodies pressed against each other, thrusting and grinding, seeking whatever release that could be found. Dorian slipped his hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Maxwell's length.

Maxwell groaned, his fingers digging into the man's hips. The fire in his gut had turned to an inferno. It moved his body, thrusting him hard and fast against the mage's hand. He rolled his hips, trying to slow the frantic pace. "Dorian…" Maxwell gulped, swallowing the mage's breath. If they kept this up, he wasn't going to last at all. " _Please_ …"

Dorian hovered over him, hot lust glittering in those pale eyes. Teasing fingers continued to stroke him, releasing every so often to run along his inner thigh.

His breath hitched with every touch, his body trembling beneath the mage's ministrations. His heart pounded so hard that he wouldn't be surprised if it burst through his chest. "Please," he repeated, his breath ragged. "I—"

Dorian smirked and Maxwell could've sworn the man's touch was a little firmer, a little rougher. "What was that?"

"I want you," he managed to growl. " _In_ me."

Shock took Dorian's face. It was small, the slight hitch in his breath, the subtle widening of his eyes. He stared at Maxwell for a long time, speechless, before their lips met, languid and heavy.

Maxwell sat up, forcing Dorian off him. "Just—" He swallowed, knowing he could very well be hobbling his chances. "Take it easy."

The mage's dark brows lifted. "Of course." Curiosity glimmered to life in those pale eyes. What was he thinking? That this was his first time? No, he'd made it plain that he'd been with men long before they'd met, right in front of the man's father of all places.

"It's been a while," he mumbled by way of explanation as he manoeuvred onto his knees in the middle of the bed.

"Oh?"

A nervous chuckle bubbled in his chest. His face was getting warm. "Six years, to be precise," he mumbled. Give or take a few months.

"Did Ostwick run out of handsome men?"

His face burned and the heat was now sliding down his neck. "No, I…" He faltered as the rest of his sentence ran through his mind. _I was a cleric back then, I technically still am, and have taken a vow of celibacy_. Maker, he couldn't tell Dorian _that_. Not with him bent over and begging to be taken. "I'd other concerns occupying my time." He was really losing ground here. If the mage up and left now, he'd deserve it. "Besides, there's no one in Ostwick like you."

Dorian laughed. "Of course not. There are few people in the world like me."

Maxwell smiled. Yes, he'd believe that. A hand caressed the small of his back and his skin prickled in anticipation. He took a deep breath, waiting.

There was a pause. "Seeing it's been so long, I don't suppose you've…"

He shook his head, knowing what it was that the mage was inquiring about. Before now, sex hadn't been at the forefront of his thoughts, much less acquiring anything that would make it easier. He made a mental note to remedy that little oversight.

"One moment, then." The mattress shifted.

Maxwell froze, listening to the pad of bare feet upon stone and the rustle of cloth as it was picked up then dropped. Just as he considered shifting to see what the mage was up to, Dorian was back at his side. The soft pop of a cork brought a grin to his lips. _Well, at least one of us was prepared_.

Fingers, cool and slick, brushed his backside, sliding between his cheeks. A fingertip pressed harder against him and Maxwell bit his lip. He leant into the touch, a soundless complaint gusting through his lips when Dorian didn't take the hint and, instead, opted to lazily run gentle circles around the area. Teasing him some more.

Maxwell closed his eyes, gulping air, trying with all his might to keep himself under control. Despite himself, a whimper constricted his throat. Desire, savage and raw, buzzed through his skin. At this rate, he wasn't going to last long enough. _More_ … he silently mouthed.

The very tip of Dorian's finger slipped in.

He grasped the bedding and buried his face in the plush blankets and fine sheets. A whine tightened his throat. Maker, it'd never felt this good before. Was this the mage's doing? Would everything feel like this?

"Max?"

The call pulled him back into himself and, to his horror, he discovered Dorian had stopped.

"Are you all right?"

" _Yes!_ " The admittance burst forth far louder than he'd intended. Heat flooded his face. "I'm fine," he heard himself babbling. "Really. Just _please_ , keep going." Gasping and eager for more, he rocked against the mage's hand, letting him slide deeper.

Dorian gave a few cautious strokes, seeming to test Maxwell's limit, before a second finger joined the other in pumping in and out of him. Slow at first, then harder and faster, working his fingers, curling them at just the right moment. Maxwell clawed at the bedding, clutching the sheets, his breath escaping in pants and moans. The fire in his gut burned hotter. Its cry for more never quite satisfied.

Then, slowly, Dorian withdrew his fingers, chuckling at his mewling protest. A hand slid along his hip, soothing him. The mattress shifted beneath his knees. Another pop of a cork and more liquid, cool and slick, dribbled along his skin. He wriggled backwards, searching for what came after. Restless. Needy.

The mage's other hand fell upon his other hip, stilling him. "Ready?" He was trembling or Maxwell was. Maybe both of them were.

Maxwell grunted, no longer able to think of the word that would give him what he wanted, much less speak it.

Dorian entered him, slow and steady. Maxwell's mouth dropped open, a strangled gasp passing his lips. _Yes! This_ was what he'd been craving since the first time they'd kissed. _This_ was what he'd asked—no, _begged_ —for.

The mage groaned as he pushed deeper, the sound guttural and growing huskier with each inch Maxwell took, until finally the man was buried to the hilt in him. Maxwell lay there, his legs shaking as glittering spots danced across his vision. He swallowed dryly, straining to hear every sound escaping the mage.

Dorian gave a few short thrusts. Shallow. Tentative. Then, seeming to take Maxwell's silence as acquiesce, he began moving in earnest. The thrusts were slow, but longer, deeper, the pace building as he matched the mage's rhythm.

The sound of their bodies meeting, the huff of their breaths, the moans and grunts… all of it filled his ears, feeding his hunger. Desire for more burned through his core, overpowering any other thought.

His whole body pulsed, ached, to the beat of his frantic heart. White rimmed his vision. He was so close that it hurt. And it still wasn't enough to tip him over the edge. His heart would give out first, of that he was certain.

He sat up, forcing Dorian onto his heels. With one hand pressed on the bed to keep him steady, he pushed against Dorian, maintaining the pace the mage had set. With the other, he searched to relieve the building pressure.

Maxwell barely felt the pressure of his fingertip upon himself when the mage slapped his hand away and took up his twitching length in his sure fingers. He tipped his head back and whimpered. The touch he'd craved so much was almost painful.

"Dorian…" he gasped, desperate, the word cracking as it escaped his lips.

The fingers squeezed in response and, for a heartbeat or two, blackness filled his vision. He faltered, left temporary dazed and panting. Dorian nibbled at his neck and his shoulder, leaving a trail of warm, wet marks upon his skin. It anchored him. Blindly, his vision refusing to focus fully, Maxwell thrust into the hand. He dared to glance down, to watch himself twitching in the mage's firm grip.

Such an act proved to be his undoing…

He arched back, the mage's chest flush with his spine. His mouth moved silently, the cry that roared through his lungs dying as it reached his throat. Eternity looped around as he lingered in that state of complete and utter bliss.

The room spun. His legs shook. Tipping his head allowed him to rest the back of it on the man's shoulder as he basked in the ecstasy flooding his mind. It left him drunk and happily delirious. The dregs of euphoria tugged at the corners of his mouth, drawing it into a grin.

"Impressive distance," Dorian murmured.

Maxwell rolled his head to one side, quieting Dorian by catching the man's mouth with his own. His lips then trailed lazily along the underside of Dorian's jaw. The smell of him was intoxicating, all hot skin and exotic perfume. It was a scent he could happily drown in.

"Venio, altus," he purred against the mage's neck. "Repleo me." It was terrible. He half expected Dorian to snicker. In another time and place, he would've been too self-conscious to dare speak a word of the haphazard Tevene he'd picked up over the years, much less _those_ words.

And yet, he couldn't deny how deliciously stunning the effect had on the man. Dorian's mouth dropped open, a tiny gasp slipping through his lips, every part of his body stiffening as if hit by one of his own lightning bolts. Maxwell drank in the mage's breath as he felt the man twitch inside him.

"That's not fair," Dorian groaned.

Maxwell rocked, nibbling at the mage's earlobe and humming to himself. Right now, he longed to hear the man's completion as much as he'd been to reach his own.

Dorian grasped his hips, the mage's fingers digging into his flesh, holding him in place. He set a new pace, faster and almost beyond anyone's control, the persona of the charming noble discarded completely. His hoarse breath panted into Maxwell's ear, each movement accompanied by a grunt. His or Dorian's, he wasn't certain anymore.

Maxwell couldn't hold himself upright under such an onslaught. He tipped back onto all fours before the force had him pressed flat against the bedding, fully at the mage's mercy. _Maker's breath…_ Dorian had to be close, yet he had just as clearly been holding back earlier on. What did they feed mages in Tevinter?

Then, just as it was starting to grow uncomfortable, Dorian went rigid, arriving with a roar that bounced off the ceiling.

His body buzzed at the sound, the fire in his gut digging deep. Maxwell moaned into a pillow. There was no way he could possibly—

White flashed across his vision, his breath leaving his lips in a rush. Pleasure flooded his mind. Not as intense as the first orgasm, but still strong in its own right. _Well, apparently I could_.

They lay there, spent and tired. Maxwell didn't think he even had the strength to shift the mage off him. Nor was he entirely certain he wanted to. Dorian wasn't all that heavy and the pressure of the man's chest rising and falling against his back was its own source of pleasure.

Then Dorian's weight shifted, lifting.

"Again?" Maxwell enquired, his voice a little too hopeful to his own ears.

Their bodies shook with Dorian's laughter. "Not anytime soon, I would think," he mumbled, collapsing on the bedding next to Maxwell, his chest still heaving and his perfect hair and moustache no longer so perfect. Those pale eyes closed, briefly, then snapped open. "Where did you learn Tevene?"

He grinned, the warmth in his cheeks a mixture of residual pleasure and embarrassment. "I wouldn't say I've _learnt_ it." A smattering of words in another language hardly made him fluent. _Just enough to get into trouble with no way out_ , as his father would say.

"Still…" Dorian pressed.

The fire in his cheeks was practically all embarrassment now. "Not all of the Inquisition's literature is… academic."

"Given what I have seen of the Inquisition's _literature_ —" He all but spat the word. "—I highly doubt you picked it out of a book during our time in Skyhold."

He huffed and rolled onto his side. "There was this… person." It'd been some time ago, back when Maxwell had begun his time as a lay brother in the Ostwick Chantry. He'd never been certain who the man was beyond the fact he spent most of the day in the library, seemingly content amongst the books and scrolls, occasionally muttering a few choice words in Tevene. "And I sort of picked up a few words from him." The man had vanished some months later. Maxwell, having been all youth and naivety back then, presumed he'd gone to another Chantry. He'd never know the truth of it.

"I see." Dorian sat up. "Such sparkling conversation you two must've had if that's the extent of your vocabulary."

Maxwell tilted his head, trying to get a better view of the man's face. Had he imagined that slight note of bitterness? _Idiot!_ He never should've spoken at all, let alone _those_ words. "Is it a problem?"

Dorian scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." He cleared his throat. "I don't see a wash basin. Or a mirror."

"Through there." He pointed to the door and laid where he'd collapsed on the bed, a dreadful leaden weight settling in his stomach, as Dorian vanished into the small room. It might have been a while, but he was used to snuggling after, at least when a bed was involved. Sadly, that didn't seem like it was happening here. At least it'd been fun.

Maxwell set about cleaning himself and the bedding, although there wasn't much he could do for the latter beyond indolently shoving the blanket to one side and off the bed. Fortunately, the fireplace did a rather good job of warding off most of the night's chill.

The mage emerged some time later, still approvingly naked but immaculately groomed once more. He strolled across the room, visibly taking in the surroundings Maxwell had long since grown accustomed to.

Instead, Maxwell's own view was mostly made of the mage. Dust motes shimmered in the low light, lending a ruddy, ethereal air to the already magnificent sight of Dorian's lean physique. Maxwell lay there, quietly indulging himself with admiring every bare inch.

"I like your quarters," Dorian said, indicating the room with a vague wave of his hand.

Maxwell grinned, his gaze having not quite left the mage's backside. _I could say the same_. "Do you now?"

The mage looked over his shoulder at him, all charm and sparkle. He smirked, his hands falling to his hips. "Don't misunderstand. I'm not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity." He turned then, the sight of him swaggering back to the bed almost eclipsing Maxwell's mind of the mage's words. "I just like your appointments."

He blinked, trying to take in what Dorian had said. Yes, even after everything—the flirting, the stolen kisses, the sex—he could see where 'mutual domesticity' could be a bad step to take right now. He opened his mouth, surprised to find "Ah" was all that would come out.

Dorian settled on the edge of the bed. "Not that I couldn't suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere."

He ran a fresh eye over the room. Yes, it was rather… _Basic_. That was probably his years in the Chantry influencing him there. _No more than necessary_. He leant on one arm and turned his gaze back to the mage. There seemed to be something different about him. "You seem a little…" He searched for the word and faltered. "…distracted."

Dorian smirked. "Sex will do that. It's distracting."

One corner of Maxell's mouth lifted. Yes, it certainly was. "I heard a rumour."

The mage pulled a rather unflattering, vexed expression. "Very well, you've rooted me out. There _is_ something I want." He glanced away. Subdued, almost pensive. So unlike the air of confidence he'd displayed but a few moments ago. "I'm curious where this goes, you and I. We've had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing Archdemons and such…"

Maxwell shuffled across the bed as the man talked, settling next to Dorian. Was _this_ what had been running through the mage's mind just before? "Tell me what _you_ want."

Those dark brows lifted as they drew together. The pale eyes that settled on Maxwell were almost mournful. "All on me, then?"

"Should it be all on me?" he countered. Ever since he gained the Anchor, everything around here depended on his decision. Just once, he wanted someone else to have an equal say in what happened, especially in this.

Dorian sighed. "I like you." He stared at the floor, his gaze unwavering as if the admittance couldn't come if he did otherwise. "More than I should. More than might be wise." He glanced up, briefly. Seemingly checking to see how his words were being taken. "We end it here, I walk away. I won't be pleased." His head lifted, the sudden firmness in his voice echoed upon his face. "But I'd rather now than later. Later might be dangerous."

Maxwell jerked back at the last sentence. "Why dangerous?"

There was that mournful expression again. What had he missed? "Walking away might be harder then."

Maxwell stared at the mage, trying to get his thoughts in order. Yes, it was entirely possible that walking away would be difficult, but he'd no plans on doing so unless that was Dorian's wish. "I want more than just fun, Dorian." He'd had more. Six years ago. He'd been content in that life until it was torn from him by the very man he once shared it with. If there was a chance for more again… He was ready to try for it.

Dorian glanced away, seemingly stunned. That was new.

"Speechless, I see," he said, trying to keep his voice light. Was this uncharted territory for the man?

"I was… expecting something different." His head snapped back to Maxwell. Maker's breath, a kicked puppy would've looked happier than Dorian did right now. "Where I come from, anything between two men… it's about pleasure. It's accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You'd be foolish to."

A small smile tweaked his lips. It seemed that, for once, he was the only one of them on familiar ground. "So let's be foolish." It was his specialty, after all.

"Hard habit to break."

"I'm good at breaking things," Maxwell replied without thought and almost groaned as he became conscious of his words. He sounded like some love-sick maiden right out of a novel. If Dorian didn't laugh in his face, it'd be a miracle.

The mage did laugh, but it was a small, almost uncertain, sound. One brow twitched. "Hopefully not everything." He cleared his throat, the 'confident Altus' facade enclosing him once again. "Care to… inquisit me again? I'll be more specific in my directions this time."

A soft chuckle escaped Maxwell's throat. "Show off," he murmured, allowing Dorian to push him back onto the bedding. Their lips met and he was certain there was an extra spark to the touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was Latin. Yes, I'm aware I likely butchered it in the name of erotica and called it Tevene. No, I don't care.


End file.
